


none of this is coincidence

by landsmanwashere (pancake_potch)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Because I cannot get enough of these two, F/M, Falling In Love, cliched soul mate au, destiny and divine providence or something, the one where they meet through history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 16:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18642106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pancake_potch/pseuds/landsmanwashere
Summary: Jaime and Arya are always meant to be.





	none of this is coincidence

 

 _From the day of the universe's creation and beyond_  
_Through the infinite centuries and beyond_  
_In the previous life and maybe the next too_  
_We're eternally together_  
_**  
** _

_BTS-"DNA" English translation_

**1931**

**Texas**

 

It was Cersei’s idea to come, and he willing agreed. The summer was hot and dry, and damnably boring. It hadn’t helped at all when Father demanded they stay away from the traveling carnival as it was, “full of reprobates, degenerates, thieves, and freaks whose very existence in the world is an affront to God.”

 

If there ever was an invitation for two fourteen year olds to directly defy their father, it was that very statement.

 

They walk the grounds a bit, and Cersei, who can be snobbish and unimpressed at the best of times can’t help but gawk. The barkers all promise sights heretofore unseen. Foreign beauties and strong men, snake charmers, and a bearded lady, even.

 

The first thing Cersei wants to do is the Ferris wheel, but Jaime takes a look at the rickety railings and the state of the operator and hesitates. “Cersei, it looks as though it’ll fall apart at any moment. It’s a death trap.”

 

“Well, doesn’t that beat all? I never knew you to be coward,” she answers, nose in the air. “I’ll just go myself then.” Cersei turns towards the ride, and Jaime has no other choice but to follow. Standing in line, she looks over her shoulder to find Jaime behind her, satisfied look on her face.

 

Despite his misgivings, it isn’t nearly as frightening as he thought, although Cersei changed her tune once the reached the top. Every light sway of the carriage causes her to grip Jaime’s hand harder, and he can’t help but laugh at her.

 

When the Ferris wheel grinds to a halt, Cersei jumps off, not even looking at Jaime. She’s angry with him, so he does his best to win her over. “Hey Cersei, let me win something for you, okay?” She doesn’t slow down, and he has to jog in order to keep up with her. He pulls her hand and gives her a smile. “Don’t be sore. I’ll win you one of those Kewpie dolls, they’re real cute.” Jaime doesn’t think they’re cute at all, but off the cob and stupid.

 

But she acquiesces, and he beams.

 

The ring toss game isn’t as easy as it looked, and he gets a little frustrated-especially with Cersei at his side. After his fifth try, he hooks the ring on a grape Nehi bottle, but it isn’t enough for that stupid baby. Instead, the carnie hands him a palm sized King Kong figure. Jaime glances at it, and goes to hand it to Cersei.

 

“That thing is hideous. I don’t want it.” Is all she says, disappointment clear. Jaime thinks it’s rather neat, and shoves it into his pocket with a shrug. Maybe he’ll give it to little Tyrion.

 

His sister stops and points to a bus with a faded canvas sign.   _Melisandre: The Gypsy Queen! Fortune Teller of the Past, Present, and Future!_

“It’s a load of bunk,” Jaime protests. But she doesn’t hear him, or doesn’t care about his opinion, because she drags him up to the door. Without so much as knocking, she pushes it open and Jaime follows.

 

It’s dim inside, only lit with a handful of candles, and Jaime has to strain his eyes. The place is covered in tapestries and hangings and beads. For a moment, he thinks there isn’t anyone inside until a voice in the shadows greets them.

 

“A pair…both radiant as the sun.”

 

They both startle turning toward the voice. It belongs to a woman sitting perfectly still, red hair draped over her shoulders. Cersei sniffs, “I want my fortune told.” The woman smiles, and waves a hand at the seat in front of her. The table between them holds cards, a crystal ball, and a bunch of other mumbo-jumbo Jaime can’t place.

 

His sister sits, back straight and places money on the table. Jaime has no other choice but to sit on a bench covered in pillows that smell like incense and cloves and he props his elbows on his knees and waits.

 

“I want to know who I’ll marry,” Cersei says, and he huffs out a breath in disappointment. Paying money for a look into the future, and of course she asks something stupid like that. If it were him, he’d ask if the Yankees were going to the World Series this year, or if he’d grow up and become a second baseman like his all time favorite Frisch, who played for the Cardinals.

 

But he watches with a healthy amount of skepticism as the woman narrows her eyes at the crystal ball. It doesn’t look like anything special-just a round glass ball, but she seems enthralled with it.

 

“A Great War approaches, and the man you are to wed will lay upon the enemy a great strike with a war hammer. The stag never consorts with a lion, except in this case.”

 

Cersei is practically vibrating in her seat. “What does he look like? Do I know him?”

 

“Black hair and square jawed. Broad and strong. A kingly face.” The Gypsy woman stares a moment longer

 

Cersei frowns and sits back, dissatisfied. “Is that it?”

 

“I’m afraid that is all the gods deem fit to show me, my little cub.” She smiles at his sister, not at all put off by Cersei’s attitude. He can feel his sister’s annoyance when she stands from her seat. Without even sparing Jaime a glance she stomps down the two steps and out the door.

 

He huffs and stands, ready to follow her when a warm hand grasps his wrist. Startled, he turns to find the red woman standing beside him. “Look, she already paid you-“

 

“It’s not payment I seek,” she replies and tilts her head studying him. Jaime finds he can’t turn away, and a cold fear thrums through him. “What about you? The gods have shown me you have lived a hundred lives before this one, and a hundred more after.”

 

“I-“ Jaime’s mouth is dry and he wants to demand she let him go, to tell her who his father is, to call out for Cersei, but nothing leaves his mouth. A soft hand caresses his cheek, and all he can do is blink at her.

 

“A girl I see. Throughout all the ages, she is yours and you are hers,” she says quietly, searching his face. “There are times when you find each other, and times you do not. A song in her name and on your lips, I see. Dark hair and eyes that reflect the clouds over a stormy sea. You may meet her yet in this life, though she has not yet drawn breath. Love cannot be found in your parallel, but your opposite.” She lets go of him, but he’s finding it hard to move. It’s when she smiles at him that he finds his feet, walking backwards a few steps before turning stumbling out of the bus.

 

He finds Cersei standing amongst a group of men, eyes all drawn to a pair of women wearing next to nothing and rubbing each other provocatively. The dirty barker is promising the best cooch show for a nickel. Jaime is stunted in his tracks, eyeing the women. His sister must have heard him, because she turns around and demands to know where he’d been.

 

“I, uh lost you, is all,” Jaime lies. It’s the first lie he’s ever told his sister, and he isn’t quite sure why. He could have easily told her what that red witch said to him, and maybe they’d have a good laugh about it. But, without really examining his reasons, he wants to keep it close to him. He thinks maybe her words hold more gravitas than he understands right now, although _love_ was the last things on his mind. He’s certain that the only girl he’ll love is his sister anyway.

 

 

That night, when they’ve snuck back into the house, careful not to wake the caretaker or the maid, Jaime curls up under the covers.

 

**30 AD**

**Britannia**

That night he dreams of a girl riding into battle on top of a wolf as big as a man. She wields a thin sword, and her face is marked in paint. Jaime looks up to her, though her hair is lighter than he imagined, he’s close enough to see her fierce eyes, hear her shout to lead the charge. She is Boudicca, and he is a soldier fighting for the Iceni against the Roman overlords.

 

When hope is lost, and she is gravely wounded, he cradles her gently amid the clamor and dust of war. She is so beautiful, he thinks, even as she orders him to fetch the vial from her belt. With shaky hands, he lays it in her weak palm and watches as she drinks it. There is only a moment before the light, the fire, the spark leave her eyes, and he tries not to weep.

 

* * *

 

 

A year passes, and he doesn’t really think about the Warrior Queen of his dream, despite how clear and vibrant it still is. Jaime’s too busy flirting with girls and playing baseball when his father allows it to think any more on that.

 

But listening to Cersei prattle on about that chump Rhaegar from up the road, he goes to bed irritated and angry for reasons he can’t quite parcel out.

 

**310 AC**

**Westeros**

 

That night he’s on a white steed, cloak around his shoulders and sword at his hip. He feels tall, valiant, and strong, aside from the hand that lays limp at his side. The heaviness of his armor is comfortable, and he pats the horse as he rides. He travels over the crest of a hill and in the distance he sees a lake. A figure and a horse catch his attention, although he can’t see who it is, he just _knows_. His heart speeds up, and he gallops a little faster.

 

She’s there, alone, staring at the water. Even from behind, she is lovely. Small and lithe, with dark hair falling down her back. At a distance he sees half her hair is braided with blue roses.

 

“They really must be angry if they sent _Golden Hand the Just_ to fetch me,” is what the girl says as he dismounts. Jaime doesn’t say anything as he goes to stand with her at the water’s edge. He looks down at her. She’s so small, no more than five and ten.

 

“Don’t call me that. It makes me seem far more virtuous and noble than I am.” He says to her. She looks up at him and snorts, something wholly unladylike considering her appearance.

 

“I don’t want to get married,” she says dully. “I didn’t travel across the sea and back to be saddled to some white haired ponce. I don’t care what the queen says.”

 

“Then don’t,” he says simply.

 

Her eyes narrow. “What about the _queen_ and the good of the _realms_ and all that?”

 

Jaime looks at her, a mix seriousness and pompousness. “Do you think I give a shit about the _realms_? I’ve had enough politicking to last the rest of my life, thank you.”

 

“Will you stop me? If I run away?”

 

“Stop you? Gods no. If anything, I would beg your leave to accompany you.” Jaime turns to face her fully now, and tugs at her hair gently so that she’ll look at him. She does, although there’s skepticism in her eyes.

 

“Why?” She asks quietly.

 

He takes a deep breath. “Well, travelling with you across the far reaches of the world is infinitely more interesting than guarding your door from those suitors of yours.” He can’t tell if she believes him or not, as she’s fiddling with her grey gown- the dress she was supposed to be wedded in, so he continues, “And…I’m your sworn sword. Where you go, there I will be.”

 

“Really?” There’s hope in her grey eyes.

 

 

Jaime can’t turn away. “Yes, _really_.” He couldn’t save his sister from her marriage, but he can save her.

 

“Promise?” Her voice is a whisper, and he feels as if there’s so much riding on his response to this, so he does the one thing he can to convince her of his faith and loyalty to her.

 

“ _Yes,_ Arya.” Is all he says before he leans down and kisses her in the gloaming.

 

* * *

 

 He walks away as fast as his feet can carry him. Away from the house and the fields, far off into the forest that borders Lannister land. The smell of her is still with him, on his clothes and his hair, his fingers. No matter how fast he goes, she still follows though she’s still back at the house.

 

He knows what they did was wrong. A brother and sister that lay together is probably one of the worst sins one could commit in the eyes of God. Jaime has never been that receptive to the words of the Lord, but he still feels ashamed. A deep, burning shame that far overpowered his joy at loving his sister in every way imaginable.

 

He stops and slowly crumples against a tree trunk. Closing his eyes, he attempts to recite the Senator’s roster that year so he could distract himself from the confusion of deep mortification that coincides with desire for his twin. He tries to repeat it over and over again, but instead he thinks about the girl in his dreams.

 

Whether he was fully asleep, or if it was just a daydream, he never really knew.

 

**1585**

**England**

 

His fist pounds on the thin door of the thatched roofed house. He eyes the land around it disdainfully. At one time, it looked as though it were well tended. The pens that once held animals were well made, although they are in disrepair now. Jaime turns his nose up and bellows, “Out! By order of the Queen!”

 

He turns to see his other men, sitting on their horses impatient. There’s shuffling somewhere inside, and he yells again. “Out at once! Remove yourselves or we shall be forced inside.”

 

He’s startled when a girl flings open the rickety door. “Leave. You have no business here.” She’s angry, this little thing. It’s difficult to say whether she was a woman grown or an uncouth child.

 

“Rumor is that you’re harboring papists.” He says with authority. “Turn them over, and you’ll receive the Queen’s mercy.”

 

This bold girl marches right up to him, though she is no more than shoulder height. There is a fierceness in her, a wildness. They stare at each other for a second- long enough to take in her dress, which by the stitching was well made- and her dark hair that had been washed recently enough that it is still shiny.

 

“Pope or queen?” He asks in a low voice.

 

“ _Leave.”_

 

“Pope,” he asks deliberately, “ _or_ _queen_.” He’s hinting towards the correct answer, though he suspects what’s lingering beyond.

 

Her eyes give away her next move. “There is only one queen, and the one upon the throne is not it.”

 

The young beauty gives him no other choice, for what she says is treason. Jaime looks over his shoulder to his men, and gives them the signal to search the house. And lo, a priest and a nun emerge both in filthy habit. Jaime tells them to take them away, leaving this girl alone with him.

 

He grabs her by the elbow into the house, intent on searching it. What he finds is the household that’s clean and has the air of low nobility. The hearth is swept and the rushes clean. He looks at his prisoner and she does nothing but glare at him. He spies a wooden box, a wolf carved in the center and he moves to open it. A harsh breath escapes the girl, which leads him to think the family keepsakes are here. Inside he finds the beads he suspected. Jaime lifts the rosary and turns to her.

 

The tears fall from her eyes in hot, silent drops down her face.

 

The sentence is death at the pyre.

 

Jaime can’t believe his ears. The family rosary he confiscated was never presented as evidence though it sat in the pouch he wore at his belt. He didn’t want her to _die_.

 

He clenches his jaw as she’s lead to the post. She’s in nothing but her shift, and Jaime finds it degrading. But he watches silently, her hands pulled and tied behind her. Kindling placed at her feet.

 

This _one lone girl_ who decided to keep her faith. He has to stop his feet from running to her- to kick the wood at her feet- cut her away from her bonds…

 

Her large eyes dart around as the torches catch, and she finds him. Amongst the crowd it is he that she sees on her last moments among the living. She makes no sound except at the end when she releases a painful cry.

 

The smell of her skin as it burns is something he will always remember as he fingers the rosary he took from her.

 

* * *

 

 

“How dare they, those up-jumped Orientals. To attack an _American base_?” The sheer nerve.” His father paces in front of the radio as the news is spread.   Jaime is leaning over, grasping at every word when his father turns to him.

 

“Our duty is to our country, Jaime. When I left your mother to fight the Great War, I had no idea she had taken with child. Consider that. You have no wife, nor children to stop you. I expect you to volunteer _at once_.”

 

Jaime darts his eyes up to his father and agrees.

 

For God and Country.

 

 

**1944**

**France**

 

He washed up to shore by accident. Omaha Beach was miles away, and somehow he didn’t make it. Jaime did however come across landmine- at least that’s what he’s been told by some older red-headed nurse.

 

“ _Arya, ensure they’ve eaten_ ,” the harsh voice said, amongst the din of the those that shared the room with him.

 

He feels the bed dip next to him, though he can’t be sure of anything else. If God was _good_ he’d be _dead_.

 

“You’re Jaime Lannister,” a light English accent declares. “Your tags say as much.”

 

He feels the hot tip of a spoon at his mouth but doesn’t want to open his eyes.. “An American,” she continues, trying to cajole him into a sip. “I’ve always wanted to meet an American…well, one as handsome as they say. And you _are_ rather handsome.”

 

He opens his eyes then and sees her. It’s _her_. The girl from his dreams-the girl from all those years ago at that Carnival. Her eyes are grey, and her dark hair is pinned up. She can’t be more than seventeen.

 

Arya. Her name is Arya.

 

Arya smiles at him and blushes. “I see. Shall I flatter you enough to get you to eat?”

 

Jaime gives her a weak smile through chapped lips. Is he dreaming? His heart beats so quickly, it’s hard to catch his breath.

 

Their eyes lock and she bites her bottom lip. She dips her head and fiddles with the spoon before bringing it up to his lips. He cooperates this time all while staring at her. He wants to say something, but he’s weak and tired and he’s unsure what to say to her anyway.

 

A low rumble, followed by a siren tears him away from his thoughts, and Arya puts the bowl down quickly and looks up to the ceiling. Another rumble, louder this time sets fear into him. He can’t _do_ anything.

 

Arya grabs his hand and looks around as if it’d give her an idea about what’s happening when a plane is heard overhead and the plaster on the ceiling falls in large clumps. She moves her body to shield him as more crumbles on top of them. People are screaming and there’s bedlam all around them, but she pulls herself up enough to look him.

 

Tears are falling from her eyes and she blinks in the chaos, a look of wonder crosses her face. “It’s you,” she whispers.

The last moment of his life as the world explodes around them is spent with Arya’s soft lips on his.

 

* * *

 

 

**1971**

**San Francisco**

He’s on the park bench, smoking as he catches sight of a dark haired girl with a crown of blue flowers, and a massive dog waiting patiently near a tree. She looks as if she’s practicing a combination of fencing and dancing and he watches intently at the way her body moves.

 

She’s beautiful he thinks, but quickly wipes the idea out of his head. He’s let his hair and beard grow, and he’s wearing civilian clothing, but the missing hand and the distant look in his eyes give away the fact that he was a soldier.

 

And people like her didn’t like people like him.

 

She catches his eye and he looks down, studying his boots until he hears a faint rustle of grass in front of him and bare feet enter his line of vision.

 

He looks up and she’s looking at him, almost puzzled. His mouth opens but he doesn’t say anything as she tugs a flower out of her hair and offers it to him.

 

With shaky hands he takes the delicate flower and when their fingers touch it almost burns. The girl inhales sharply and gives a weak smile before walking away.

 

Jaime looks over his shoulder to watch her and as she’s waiting for traffic to clear enough to cross the street, she turns over her own shoulder to look right back at him.

 

* * *

 

**1873**

**Choctaw Nation**

“What are you talking about, little girl? I am a Texas Ranger.”

 

“I don’t give one single whit what you are. Marshal Clegane is going to see me to my revenge, and you can go toss yourself off the nearest cliff if you think you’re going to stop me.”

 

“You willful thing. There is a bounty on the man, and I intend to collect it.”

 

She’s on her horse, steely-eyed in men’s clothing. “And I intend on justice.”

 

He scoffs and cannot believe the absolute cheek of this girl. “Did you not listen when I told you that he will answer for his crimes-including that against your family? Do you not hear one word I say to you?”

 

“All I hear is a bunch of talk-a lot of words with little meaning behind them. All you _do_ is talk, I’ve yet to see any action.”

 

“I certainly _acted_ when I took you over my knee-“

 

Her jaw clenches. “At least you haven’t tried stealing that kiss as you threatened earlier.”

 

“Perhaps I will now, since you don’t respond to anything else.”

 

In the corner of his eye he sees Marshal Clegane saunter up on his horse, bottle of gut rot clenched in his fist. He looks at the both of them.

 

“All this chawing and we’ll never find the man who killed your pa, girl. Would you kindly set aside your courtship rituals so we can get on with it?”

 

Arya turns red and doesn’t answer before leading her horse away. 

 

* * *

 

 

**2050**

**Post-Cordycep Outbreak America**

**“** Arya, you could’ve gotten yourself killed. Do you understand me?”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

Jaime snatches the gun out of her hands. “That was stupid.”

 

Arya’s jaw drops. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me? I just saved your ass, old man.”

 

They both look down at the dead man, who, just a second ago was very much alive and trying to kill Jaime. His throat is raw from where the dead man’s hands were and he takes a deep breath.

~

They’re traveling west and at this speed, they won’t be getting there until spring. He looks at the girl faithfully trotting along next to him, and something inside him twinges.

 

She says something about finding a car and he agrees but tells her even if they did find a working vehicle, the chances that it’s guarded by people they didn’t want to come across were too high.

 

Just because she’s immune to the cordycep sickness doesn’t make her immune to a bullet or an axe or rape…but he doesn’t say that to her. She’s his to protect.

 

All this time together crossing this wasteland that used to be the US, and he’s grown fond of her-no, that’s not true…it’s more than that. Arya is crude and sarcastic and at times, downright irritating, but the loyalty and the unwavering faith in him is hard to ignore.

~

Arya’s got her rifle across her back and a pistol at her hip now and he has whatever can be made into a weapon

 

They’ve weaved themselves into a unit-watching each other’s backs, taking care of each other, keeping each other alive. It matters none that she’s only fifteen.

 

They approach some sort of summer cabin in what used to be Missouri, he thinks.

 

“Wanna try it?” Arya asks, grey eyes pinning his feet to the ground.

 

Jaime stares at her for a bit longer than he intended. “Can’t hurt.”

 

She only takes a step before Jaime tugs her sleeve. Curious, Arya turns to face him. He pulls her into a hug, and he’s met with a surprised huff of breath before small arms wind around him.

 

She pulls away and smiles. “No time for sentimentality, old man. Let’s see if there’s any shit left here.”

 

Jaime smiles back at her fondly.

 

* * *

 

 

**2019**

**King’s Landing**

**“A Thousand Pounds of Wildfire”**

**“** So you agree, then?”

 

“Jaime, you’re so stupid. Didn’t I already agree? Did you not see the ring on my finger-you put it there.”

 

“Poppet, it’s legally binding.”

 

Arya gives him a bland look. “ _Really_? Explain to me how when I signed my name to the license how it _wasn’t_.”

 

“You’re my wife after this.”

 

“ _Oh my God_ ,” Arya says sarcastically. “Are you serious? I had no idea.”

 

“Arya.”

 

“You going to marry me or not, Jaime? You trying to back out now? I think Bronn-“

 

He lifts her up in his arms-where she is always meant to be- and kisses her.

 

“You’re going to be stuck with me,” she says, cupping his face in her small hands. “ _Forever_. Until one of us is _dead_.”

 

Jaime swallows the lump in his throat and stares into her eyes. She’s been eighteen now for six months, and it’s only been a few weeks since she coyly asked if he was going to make good on his promise, and he hadn’t even let her finish her sentence before he tackled her.

 

“Arya, I’ll marry you tomorrow, if you’ll allow it.” He had said seriously. Truthfully, he wanted to make it official when he gave her that ring over a year ago, but obviously couldn’t.

 

Arya smiled at him then, melting his heart. “Let’s do it then.”

 

And now they stand in the middle of the sidewalk, outside the courthouse, staring at each other, unmoving, much to the dismay of the pedestrians trying to weave around them as they wait for his brother and her sister.

 

“I love you,” he tells her quietly.

 

Her eyes soften as she looks at him. “I love you, Jaime. More than anything.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a lot of things. Obviously Boudicca, Queen Elizabeth l and WW2, but the last couple were True Grit and The Last of Us.


End file.
